


Dance With The Devil

by Brumeier



Series: Bite Sized Fic [125]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Dark Character, First Meetings, First Time, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Murder, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 06:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8613874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/pseuds/Brumeier
Summary: LJ Comment Fic for Villains prompt: Stargate: Atlantis, John Sheppard/Rodney McKay, John's the charismatic serial killer who's been terrorizing people all over [east/west coast/state/area] and Rodney's the FBI officer who's been chasing after him.





	

Rodney looked down at the latest body with clinical detachment. There was nothing unexpected: white male between the ages of forty and sixty, ten shallow knife wounds to the torso, ligature marks on the wrists and ankles, extensive bruising around the throat from the victim being repeatedly strangled. Cause of death was a penetrating stab wound to the heart.

There had been five other bodies with identical injuries in as many months.

He stepped back and let the Medical Examiner slide the body back into the cooler. “Did the lab turn up any trace evidence?”

The ME, a woman who looked like she should’ve been on the cover of a fashion magazine instead of spending all of her time with corpses, shook her head.

“No particulates of any kind. The body was very thoroughly cleaned before it was found.”

Rodney thought as much. Same as the others. “Let me see it.”

The ME handed Rodney an evidence bag with a scrap of paper inside. Another mathematical equation, pretty basic stuff for him; for others it was apparently incredibly challenging, and oftentimes experts were called in. It was the only thing the killer left behind, coordinates that would lead to the next general area where he’d strike.

Rodney took a picture of the equation with his phone. One more thing to add to his file.

“It’s a GPS location,” the ME said. 

That was a surprise. “You figured it out?”

“It’s just math,” she replied with a shrug.

Rodney gave her a considering look. There was nothing sexier than intelligence, and if he’d had the time to linger in Boston maybe he would’ve seen about taking the pretty coroner out for dinner. And sex. But he had to move on, because the Grandpa Killer had left another clue and Rodney only had a month to catch him.

“Thanks for your help,” he said, already heading for the door.

“Good luck, Agent McKay.”

*o*o*o*

One month later, Rodney was camped out in a motel in Bangor, Maine. The wall between the bathroom and the bed was covered with copies of everything he had on the Grandpa Killer case: crime scene photos, autopsy photos, witness statements, backgrounds on each of the victims, every mathematical equation that had been left behind with the bodies, and the profile that had been put together by the BAU.

Rodney knew it all by heart at this point, but he studied it anyway. Tried to find new patterns, new connections. On the desk behind him the laptop was churning away, looking for men in the Bangor area that fit the victim profile. If only he knew more about the man behind the killings.

Fact one: The unsub was a white male, likely in his twenties or thirties. Highly educated.

Fact two: The unsub was methodical, calculated, and organized. No-one ever saw him with the victims when they were alive, nor was he ever seen when he was leaving the bodies for the cops to find. In six kills he hadn’t left the slightest bit of forensic trace evidence.

Fact three: The unsub took the time to get to know his victims, which was the reason he needed a month between kills. All of the victims had been pillars of the community on the surface, but a little digging uncovered that they were also all abusive in some way – to their wives, their children, complete strangers – which indicated that the unsub himself had been the victim of abuse at some point in his past.

That was everything Rodney knew about the unsub. He had so many more questions. The equations, especially, confounded him. What was the man trying to accomplish with those? Did he want to be stopped? Or taunt the authorities?

“Who are you?” Rodney muttered.

*o*o*o*

The pub was perfect: dim lighting, good craft beers, and a menu full of meats and cheeses. Rodney sat at the bar watching a football game on the closest TV while he ate a shaved steak sandwich. He’d needed to get out of the motel room, and his own head, for a little while.

Any hope he had of enjoying a quiet meal was dashed when a guy parked himself on the stool next to Rodney’s.

“Hey.”

Rodney grunted noncommittally and took another big bite of his sandwich. He thought that was a pretty clear expression of his desire not to talk, but the guy must’ve been pretty dense.

“Good choice on the sandwich. That’s my favorite too.” He ordered a beer and propped himself up on his elbows, nodding at the television. “Who’s winning?”

“The score is literally right on the screen,” Rodney said around a mouthful of food.

“So it is.”

There was silence after that, and Rodney did his best to ignore the man. He wasn’t a big fan of football but he tried to look like he was engrossed in it anyway. It might’ve worked if the guy could sit still and stop drawing Rodney’s eye. Just using peripheral vision, Rodney got an impression of knobby wrists and spiky hair and improbably pointed ears.

“You live around here?” the guy asked. So much for peace and quiet.

“No.”

“You here on business?”

Rodney sighed. He pulled his wallet out, and threw some money on the bar. He also pulled out his FBI badge and ID, and put that on the bar as well.

“I’m working. And if you don’t mind, I don’t feel like talking.”

The guy picked up the badge, examining it with open curiosity. “Special Agent Rodney McKay. Cool.”

Rodney snatched his ID back and stuffed it into his pocket. Now that he was looking at the guy head on, he could see how attractive he was. Thin face, stubbled chin, and a keen, intensive gaze.

“Cool? How old are you, ten?”

“Am I allowed to buy a beer for a special agent, or is that kind of thing not allowed?”

Hmm. Was he hitting on Rodney? That hadn’t happened in a long time. He supposed one night off from the case wouldn’t be the worst thing. It might even give him some perspective.

“One beer,” Rodney said.

“Works for me.” The guy waved the bartender over and ordered another round for both of them. “So what do I call you? Special Agent?”

“Rodney will do.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Rodney. I’m John.”

*o*o*o*

Rodney pushed John through the door, pawing at his belt. He didn’t normally bring barflies home with him, not when they didn’t have the brains to back up the pretty faces. But there was something about John he found compelling, though he couldn’t quantify it in any measurable way.

Also, he was a little drunk.

“What’s that?” John asked, pulling away.

It took a moment for Rodney to switch gears, and then he cursed himself. His murder board was right out there for anyone to see; he’d forgotten to cover it up before he went out. Well, so much for getting laid. Nothing killed the mood quicker than pictures of mutilated corpses.

“Is this the case you’re working on?” John studied the pictures intently, his hands clasped behind his back. “Serial killer?”

“I can’t talk about it,” Rodney said warily.

John didn’t seem at all put off by the crime scene photos. Was he one of those creepers that got turned on by blood and gore? Rodney had run across a few of them during his time with the FBI, though he’d never tried getting laid by one.

“Math looks difficult,” John said, looking at the unsub’s equations.

“It’s not.” Rodney came up behind John and stroked a hand down his abdomen, over the steely hardness still encased in denim. If John wasn’t running out of the room screaming then Rodney was going to take advantage. “Not for me. I’m a genius.”

John turned, his hands sliding over Rodney’s hips. “That so?”

He kissed Rodney, mouth hard and insistent, and the murder board was forgotten. Everything was forgotten except the feel of John’s skin and the rush of sexual endorphins. John was focused and possessive in bed, his fingers and mouth leaving bruises.

Afterwards, when Rodney lay panting on the sweat-stained sheets, John brought him a glass of water.

Rodney drank it without any hesitation.

*o*o*o*

Morning sun was streaming brightly through the motel window when Rodney woke, his mouth feeling like it was stuffed with cotton. He groaned and rolled over, burying his face in the pillow. The pillowcase smelled freshly washed.

Rodney pushed up, looked at the sheets. Definitely cleaner than they had been last night. And he was dressed in his pajamas, which he had no memory of having put on. He sniffed his arm. It smelled like soap.

He rolled out of bed and pulled his gun from the nightstand drawer, but John wasn’t there. It was apparent that the entire room had been cleaned: there were vacuum marks in the carpet, the window glistened, and every surface had been wiped down. The glass John had brought him, which presumably held the drugs that had knocked Rodney out for the duration of Mr. Clean’s burst of activity, was clean and set upside down next to a carafe of water.

Rodney checked the murder board, but nothing looked out of place. He dropped down on the edge of the bed and rubbed his hand over his face. The Grandpa Killer had literally fucked him, and all Rodney had to show for it was a collection of bruises.

He should’ve felt disgusted. Angry at having been so blind. Infuriated at having been played so neatly. Instead he felt…smug.

John was the killer Rodney had been chasing. He was extremely intelligent, extremely wily, and impossible to catch. He never left any forensics behind, but that didn’t matter now. Rodney had seen his face.

And Rodney never forgot a face.

*o*o*o*

When a body turned up in Bangor, despite Rodney’s best efforts, he found himself scanning the crowd at the crime scene. Looking for John.

“Agent McKay?”

“Yes, what is it?” Rodney turned to glare at the local Sheriff. “Are you collecting footage of the crowd like I told you?”

“We are,” the Sheriff said with a frown. “I thought you’d want to see this.”

He handed Rodney an evidence bag with the latest equation inside. Rodney’s skin flashed hot as he looked at John’s elegant handwriting. He drank in every curved number, every precise dash and line. Another set of coordinates, which meant another chance to catch John. And he _would_ catch John.

Rodney just wasn’t sure what he’d do with him once he did.


End file.
